


What You Want

by cymbalism



Series: Unholy Alliance [1]
Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: 1899, Angst, Emotional Manipulation, First Kiss, First Time, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Secret Relationship, Unrequited Love, failing friendship, unholy alliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack wants a future. David wants what he can't have. Spot knows you never get what you want unless you take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jack Be Nimble

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, all Spavid starts with Javid, so that is where we begin.  
> 

  


* * *

 

Jack leaned over the railing of the Jacobs' fire escape balcony just to feel the dizziness. He bounced back, knocking elbows with David, and let his head spin while he waited for Dave to take his cue and play the part of interested listener by asking what had happened next. Then Jack could reveal his big final triumph of the night and maybe they would go back inside and celebrate. Maybe Sarah was hiding a cake in the cabinet for just this kind of occasion.

"So? Then what?" David finally contributed. He wasn't nearly as excited as Jack wanted him to sound, but it was good enough.

"So then Boss Greene looks hard at me for a long time, right? And he says, 'You got it, mister. Be there Saturday. You're up _first_.' First!" Smiling, Jack whapped David on the arm. "You believe that, Davey? Only been with these guys a few weeks and already they got me first on the docket for their rally."

Jack held the railing tight and leaned back, letting his arms tug at his shoulder sockets, and swayed. He crashed into David once, swung away and then back, making it twice. Still David wasn't smiling. He didn't smile enough in general by Jack's standards, but usually Jack could tease him into one or two. That was less and less possible since David had started school again. Jack figured school was enough to get anyone down, but still. No matter how he tried to distract Dave or get him excited, nothing worked. Sometimes it seemed like there was something David wanted, but Jack certainly didn't know what it was. He'd give it to him if he knew, and if he could.

"Saturday's gonna be big, Dave. Bigger than our rally was, and you can bet there'll be more than one reporter there. The papes will cover this story for sure. Boss Greene's making sure we're heard. Stuff like what happened to your pop shouldn't happen to no one, and—"

David just stared out and up at the strip of darkening sky between the tenements. "The rally is this Saturday?"

"Yeah. I got four days to come up with something really good to say. Hey, you got any ideas? You're the Walking Mouth with the brain and all. I was thinking about something like what Denton said—about how the city needs its laborers, you know?"

David pursed his lips in thought, then rocked sideways to face Jack, propping himself on one elbow. That nagging sensation began to gnaw at Jack's stomach. This was about to get serious.

Fixing his gaze directly on Jack, David said levelly, "We're supposed to go to Brooklyn on Saturday."

"Oh, right." Jack dropped his smile for the first time since he'd arrived at the Jacobs'. "Spot."

"Yes." David's tone was dangerously calm. It made Jack feel somehow hollow inside. "A meeting with Spot _you_ set up."

Jack ducked his head and tugged at the cuffs of his coat—already the nights were getting colder.

"And besides that, we were going to sell together on Saturdays. That was the plan for when I started school, right? Know how many times you've made it?"

Jack winced and didn't bother with the math because he knew David was about to tell him anyway.

"Once, Jack. One Saturday."

Jack straightened up in his own defense. "Two."

"No. One. The last time we sold together before school started doesn't count. And anyway, that was five weeks ago."

Jack shifted around to lean back against the fire escape railing and peered through the window to where Sarah played cards with Les. He shrugged. "Les says you guys have been making a killing on Saturdays even without me. Taught you pretty good, I guess." He grinned and ruffled David hair. David batted his hand away and kept his sour look. Jack heaved a sigh and gave in to his seriousness.

"All right, Davey, I forgot about this weekend and Spot and everything. But I'm asking you, as a friend, to go see him for me. Boss has heard of him and was impressed we're friends—he wants to get to know Spot better." Even peripherally Jack caught David's eye-roll. "See, if I can get Spot on board, we could do some real organizing, he and me. Boss Greene says that's part of the plan."

"Oh it is, is it?"

Jack ignored that and attempted a shift in direction. "Maybe you can pick up the afternoon edition in Brooklyn. Spot'll let you sell there."

David glowered.

Jack knew he was wheedling. "Spot won't mind it's just you, I promise."

David smacked the heels of his hands against the metal railing and shoved away. "That's not the point!"

"Then what _is_ the point?"

"It's always the same point, Jack." David's voice was raised, urgent. "You've got to live up to your word. You've got to do what you say you're going to."

If Jack had planned a witty response, it died on his tongue. "I said I was coming here tonight and I made it," he offered.

"Yes, you did. Never mind that Sarah and Mama had to wait dinner half an hour for you."

"That's only because Boss Greene was . . ."

David cut him off with a disgusted grunt and snapped, "Just shut up, Jack."

Jack did. He kept quiet for a minute or so, his attention bouncing between Sarah's laugh and smile inside and David's crossed arms and frown across from him. The yellow patches of glow from the Jacobs' windows were the only light they had now. Mister Jacobs would call David in soon.

Eventually, David sighed and resumed his place at the landing ledge. "Things just changed so fast."

He was right. After their strike, Jack and David had been local celebrities. Jack had never sold so many papers and job offers came left and right. Boss Greene's was the best, though, and it included free room and board at a house for Greene's men. The place wasn't much, but it was a mansion compared to the lodge. Then Mister Jacobs found work as a shop clerk (which Jack suspected Greene had a hand in, but he hadn't mentioned that yet) and Dave started back at school. Jack still picked up a few papes to sell if he knew he'd be trekking through the old hot spots on business anyway, and he was supposed to sell with David on Saturdays, but he'd mostly parted ways with the newsies. Already he saw kids on corners whose faces and names he didn't know. He barely even saw Davey—or Sarah, for that matter—anymore. Hard to believe it used to be every day.

Harder to believe he'd gotten accustomed to that routine so fast, and that he hadn't thought once about Santa Fe since the strike ended.

"Yeah. Yeah, they sure did." Something about the way David had said it stopped him from adding, _for the better_. "But we're still partners, Davey, right?"

"Newspaper selling partners, yeah."

Jack scooted over, swung an arm around David's shoulders, and jostled him some. "Nah. We're more than that."

For a second Jack thought he'd pressed too tight because David's expression was pained, but then he sighed and gave Jack that doubtful-but-resigned look. Jack smiled and slapped his shoulder before letting go and pushing away from the railing. "So you'll do it, then? You'll go?"

"Spot's expecting _you_. This is _your_ deal. I don't work for Greene—"

Jack stopped listening. Sink or swim, that's what the Boss was always saying. And David could swim. He was just one of those people that needed a push into the water.

"Yeah, but Davey, I need you to talk to him since I can't be there. You got the magic mouth, remember?" Playfully, Jack cupped David's chin. But instead of yanking out of his grasp or rolling his eyes like Jack expected him to, David didn't move.

Even in the low light Jack could see how blue David's eyes were, and he could see that want of something within them. It was somehow on his lips, too, sitting there unspoken. A secret. Mesmerized, Jack rubbed his thumb over David's parted lips and watched its slow progress. He looked up to find David's eyes closed.

Jack dropped back into his senses with a start and wrenched his hand away. He faked a cough to make it seem normal.

Silence still hung between the boys as Mister Jacobs' face appeared and the window. "David," he said softly, "it's time to come in now."

David didn't answer. He pierced Jack with a stare Jack couldn't read.

Jack took a few steps back, surprised to find his legs felt weak. "All right, well, hey—see you around. Don't forget about Saturday. And, you know, thanks." He waved a hasty goodbye without meeting either man's eyes, clambered down the fire escape, and didn't allow himself to linger when he reached the street.


	2. Black and Blue

  


* * *

 

David wound his way off the pier and down the steep embankment through the towers of unused crates and barrels and ship tackle. A cold, thin breeze drifted off the water, smelling like dried algae and aged wood. At first David had thought the two Brooklyn boys were screwing with him when they'd pointed below them after he asked where he could find Spot, but it turned out they weren't.

The tide was out, leaving an extra stripe of exposed sand. Spot leaned against the nearest support piling of the pier, arms crossed, frowning out at the water and cramped view. He didn't even turn his head as David approached. "Where's Jacky-boy?"

Already feeling uneasy, David trotted to a halt near Spot. He weighed his explanation options and decided keeping it simple was the only way he would be able to get the words out. "He couldn't make it. Last-minute business."

The direction of Spot's gaze didn't change, but David could see the menacing cast to his squint plenty well from where he stood. "'Business,' huh? Business for Boss Greene he wants you to talk me into joining."

It wasn't a question like it should have been. Arms across his own chest, David studied his boots in the sand. He hadn't seen Jack since Tuesday and he was still too angry to want to be around him, but for a second David wished he were standing beside him with a quip and a cocky smile, and not just because he should have been there anyway.

"Is 'business' so good he ain't got time for a regular chat with an old friend?"

David held his tongue. Spot just said out loud what David had been bitterly wondering for weeks, so he couldn't very well out-and-out lie. And anyway, he was done shoring up Jack's facade. From where he stood, staring at a miniature Manhattan from under Spot's dank dock, it was easy to see that Jack's gloss had always been nothing but spit polish. David stayed silent and watched Spot strike a match to light the cigarette he'd pulled from behind his ear.

After he'd taken the first puff, Spot readjusted against the piling to face David and looked at him expectantly.

"Jack says he's sorry but there is a rally today. Greene needed him. He says Greene wants to meet you, though, and that he's got a spot for you. Organizing."

"Organizing what?" Spot fired back, not waiting for answer. "That's bull. Jacky-boy's got himself caught up in a lie so big he can't see it. Licking somebody else's boots ain't a job." Spot gave a disapproving wag of his head and flicked ash off his cigarette. "He never was a real leader."

There wasn't a word about Jack's taking up with Greene that David didn't agree with. Regardless, a rush of hot defensiveness flushed through him over that last accusation. "Yeah, well, you can't lead a mob of newsies forever." He didn't hide the bite in his voice.

"No shit. But a leader's a leader. Once you're a leader, you don't go joining somebody else's gang. You don't give it up."

The ease of Spot's arrogance made it all the uglier. David's heart was in this throat and his stomach in his toes and he could pretty much guarantee Spot's fist would be in his ribs in a minute, but he feigned dead calm and spoke his mind anyway.

"So, what, you expect to just waltz into the top spot in life?" He mimicked a table server, one hand out while the other lifted an imaginary lid. "'Here's the world handed to you on a silver platter, Mr. Conlon'? 'You didn't earn it, but we're too afraid of you to say so, Boss Conlon'?" He stood straight and brushed invisible dirt from his shirt. "Fear's not the same thing as respect, you know."

Spot's eyes were ice. "You think you're something special, Mouth, but you're nothing but Kelly's messenger boy."

The truth in that smarted. David sharpened his glare and felt his fingers curl into fists.

Spot took a pointedly slow drag on his cigarette. Glancing down at David's fists, he casually settled his free hand on the brass head of his cane. He tossed his chin and spoke through the smoke he exhaled. "Careful there, Davey. I could have you flat on your back in three seconds."

Feeling that he had nothing to lose at that point anyway, David crossed his arms again, turned his head, and laughed a scoff. Spot threw down his cigarette and lunged.

David barely saw Spot draw his cane before his fall forced the air out his lungs and Spot had him pinned across the chest with it, the shaft jammed up under his chin. His lower body was immobilized by Spot's wiry legs, knees and ankles strategically planted to prevent an escape, and a chill seeped into his spine from the damp sand.

Spot nudged his cane up cruelly to make it harder for David to catch his breath or swallow. He held himself taut, suspended over David, the heavy cotton of his shirt hanging low enough to expose his chest, and stared hard into his eyes. For an irrational second, David thought Spot might kiss him.

And then he did.

Only it wasn't a kiss, exactly. Spot went for his throat, catching David's skin in a wet bite—like he'd tear it off if he could, like he wanted it that much. It hurt like fuck, and David yelled but didn't fight. Somehow the hurt felt right—like pushing on a bruise, like if you pushed hard enough or often enough it might not hurt anymore. It just happened that the bruise was deep inside him, and named Jack Kelly. So instead he searched out Spot's stare and dared him without speaking a word.

Spot batted away his cane and plunged toward him again, hands grappling to remove David's shirt while keeping him pinned. David felt his heart thudding, felt Spot's bony fingers twist over his nipple, felt lightning jolt to his dick in response. He managed to catch Spot's wrists and force himself upright, which left Spot kneeling over his lap. For two seconds they glared hard at each other—their stillness hiding their surprise, need, want. Then, as if on command, they launched at one another, clawing off clothing.

Bare-chested and breathing hard, David shoved Spot backward. Spot blocked his own fall and rolled David into the same position as before. This time, though, Spot straddled him lower, just below David's growing hard-on, and instead of leaning down to pin him, Spot expertly, emotionlessly whipped through David's belt, button, and fly.

That was the moment David realized he had no idea what was supposed to happen next. It was also the moment he knew for certain he didn't care.

He'd been aching for something without knowing what it was, exactly, or how to get it. This was as close to a cure as he'd get. He reached for the waistline of Spot's trousers—trying hard not to imagine that slim body was just a little bit brawnier, that those blue eyes were brown—and yanked him down on top of him.

When it was over, David rolled off his knees onto his back. He didn't want to move much more than that, but Spot was already shaking sand out of his clothes and stepping back into his pants. The air was full of salt and fish and tar and sweat as David worked to steady his breathing. He dry swallowed and pinched his eyes shut against the flashes of his hands on Spot, of Spot's fast fingers, of biting back a howl and trying not to black out, of being damn glad he hadn't, of the rushing release. He was sure a bruise was already forming between his neck and shoulder where Spot had bitten him.

"Here." Spot dropped David's pants and shirt onto his stomach. Cigarette smoke spiraled up from his other hand. "I got business, you got a long walk, and coppers start patrolling around dusk."

David nodded as he sat up and pushed his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. They didn't feel like his arms, though. In fact, his whole body felt like it wasn't his. He yanked on his pants and bit down a dark smile. The numbness made him feel stronger.

Getting to his feet sent sharp prickles through him, but David didn't let himself flinch. He buttoned his pants, tucked in his shirt, and thought about what to say when Jack asked how it went. "I'll tell Jack that I gave it to you straight, and you said he can go fuck himself and Boss Greene."

Spot gave a curt nod and finished off his cigarette, crushing the last bit into the sand. "That's right." Spot sucked at his cheek for a moment, then moved a hand to his mouth and spit lightly. He held it out for a shake.

David reciprocated, meeting him palm-to-palm. "See you," he said because he couldn't think of anything else.

Spot jerked up his chin in farewell. "Yeah. Brooklyn'll be here."

David pulled his hat from his back pocket and fixed his bearings on the bridge—the way back to Manhattan, and to Jack.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read snippet of Spot/David [bonus smut](http://archiveofourown.org/works/502368) now (fic is linked through), or come back to it later; the bonus smut is part 2 of the Unholy Alliance series.


	3. Use and Force

  


* * *

 

Spot Conlon bit down until David protested with a sharp, low cry then dragged his mouth from shoulder to exposed neck and sucked hard. There was never any kissing when they did this. That was their unspoken arrangement. Spot was no fairy. He didn't kiss boys.

In fact, he didn't normally pull this kind of thing at all. Just when the opportunity presented itself. He'd been pretty damned surprised that first time, even though -- thinking back on it -- he shouldn't have been. Spoiling for a fight always got him half hard, and Spot could practically taste David's unspent frustration that day.

Spot let David take him down and stay on top just long enough to drop his guard. Then he forced his body weight upward and rolled them, bodies clashing and the friction stirring heat and blood. Beneath him, David struggled upward between gasps for breath, but Spot pressed a hand to his chest and held him firmly against the cold, gritty floor. He might be skinnier, but years spent on the streets and around the docks assured that he wasn't weaker.

It was obvious David had grown up soft -- and that didn't bother Spot any, he didn't begrudge him that -- but like Spot, Jack had been on the streets, too. Only Jack had learned to survive on a lie and smile and a whole lot of running instead of by his fists (the difference between Manhattan and Brooklyn, Spot figured) but that didn't always cut it. If it weren't for Spot, Jack would've been taken out by that first round of thugs with chains. Dead meat is what he'd be.

At his waist, Spot felt David's fingers fumble with the button on his trousers. Spot didn't do him the favor of helping him. Instead he tested the strength of David's concentration and conviction by sliding his hands beneath David's layered shirts and running them up his abdomen to his chest, the grit of sand under his palm the whole way. He dragged a coarse thumb over David's nipple, and David bucked and moaned, his fingers giving up on the trouser button and moving instead to Spot's shirt. He yanked until the hem came untucked then latched a hand onto Spot's hip and not-so-gently suggested the force and speed of Spot's groin against his.

Want burned across him, but Spot didn't utter a single noise of pleasure or otherwise. Instead he grabbed at the hand on his hip, wrenched it a few inches over, and pressed it firmly between his own legs. David began to work him silently, eyes wide and intense but unafraid. They both wanted the same thing, and Spot never wasted time wondering whether David was there because he wanted it from Spot or if he just wanted it. Spot didn't much care, but he wasn't a fool either -- Jacky-boy never could see what was right in front of him, never did know how to make use of his resources.

In a way, it was the same with Greene. Maybe that's what was so insulting about Jack's "job offers." Jack couldn't see beyond the moment, or himself, enough to get a sense of the whole picture. If he could, he'd know Spot had a job, of sorts, and big plans for advancement -- neither of which had anything to do with herding newsies anymore, but Spot wasn't even sure David had noticed that. Spot's territory hadn't changed so much as expanded, though David hadn't yet questioned the shanties and warehouses along the wharf Spot led him to once the weather turned too cold to meet under the pier.

David let go of Spot to unfasten his own pants, and Spot did the same. The onset of winter and need for expediency and secrecy meant they didn't bother stripping off boots or shirts anymore. The cold sting of the air at the first seconds his skin was exposed only increased Spot's arousal and made him all the more eager for the heat of David's body. With the muscle memory of line workers, Spot swung a leg over while David turned and knelt, then Spot slid against him. The hot shock of skin-on-skin almost made him lose it right then, but he bit back and began to work the ways and places he'd found got David ready fastest.

Given that David was half bent over an upturned crate, knuckles white at the wooden edge, Spot reached around to grab hold of David's hard-on. He'd only done that once before, maybe last time, and found he liked the implied power of it. As his fist encircled David from the front, Spot pushed in from behind and David let out a ragged moan. Spot's free hand flew to cover David's mouth -- the warehouse was empty, but they were tucked in a corner and sound was bound to echo -- but instead David bit at the crook of his thumb. Spot let him for a minute, until David adjusted and began to press back in keeping with Spot's rhythm -- at that point he needed his hand to steady himself as his head got light and instinct took over.

Minutes later, Spot shifted over and stared up at the thick boards of the ceiling. Panting, David collapsed across from him. Though Spot measured his breaths to slow his heart, one last dart of ecstasy shot through him and he kicked his heel down hard in response. He listened for yardmen coming back from their dinner break, but heard no voices or rumble of activity. So much the better. He stole a glance at David -- other than tugging his pants back in place, he hadn't moved.

Spot sat up, shoving his shirt into his trousers. He always made sure he was first to recover, first to leave. "Jacky-boy know what kind of business you got in Brooklyn?" He hadn't asked when David showed up this time, he realized. They hadn't said much of anything. Spot had just nodded as usual, told Brick he would be back, and strolled away slow with David at his side. But he decided not to forget again. It was dangerous to assume -- even if that was the way it played out every time. Better to keep business first and keep the other guy asking for it.

David laid still, one hand against his chest, the other clutching at emptiness against the floor. "I only come here when he sends me."

"Yeah." Spot narrowed his eyes. David hadn't quite answered the question, but Spot preferred it that way. After all, David didn't get his reputation as a mouth just for knowing what to say -- Spot counted on David exactly because he knew what not to say.

Spot studied David through surreptitious glances as David reassembled himself. He usually took off before David finished retying his bootlaces or straightening his cuffs or whatever it was he did, but this time Spot stayed, taking a seat on the crate they'd just finished with. A flash of blue met Spot's stare from under David's curly forelock, then he looked up fully with a furrowed brow as he finished latching his belt. "What?"

Fishing for a cigarette, Spot shrugged. He found a half-crushed stub in his coat pocket and poked it between his lips to search for a match. Things was, Spot'd always seen the use of an upstanding guy with smart mouth and sharp brains -- and had it factored out that he'd be needing one soon -- but knew he couldn't force David Jacobs to do any damn thing. Overtly, anyway. And not if he was still clinging to Kelly.

Spot flipped the match aflame and touched it to his cigarette, then shook it out as he asked, "He offered you a job yet?"

"Greene?" David checked his pocket watch.

Spot let smoke roll on his tongue to suck the flavor before blowing it out. "Jack. He's starting his own team, so I hear."

David frowned. "Yeah, he is. But no, he hasn't."

Spot watched as David patted down his coat pockets in search of his hat and gloves. He biffed ash off the cherry of his cigarette. "You think it's really gonna work, this team scheme of Greene's? Keep people in the fight through winter?"

"I think Greene's a capitalist first and a reformer second, or third. Or seventh."

"So Jack's a dupe?" Spot couldn't help his raised eyebrow.

David scowled. "I'm going."

Face set with consternation, David brushed past. Neither of them offered the other the customary spit shake. Spot tracked David as he crossed to the side door they'd come in and let it smack closed behind him, feeling sure that every time David walked home from Brooklyn he had further to go.


	4. Standing or Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The political dealings in this chapter (and those forthcoming) are not meant to reflect historical events.

  


* * *

 

Jack found David outside the bookstore. He was holding a thin stack of newspapers, but making no effort to attract customers, simply staring at his reflection—or, Jack supposed, the books—in the window around the gold "antique books" lettering.

"Penny for a pape," Jack greeted.

Startled, David tensed and stayed tense even as Jack slid into place at his side. For the hundredth time Jack wished David wasn't all nervy like that with him. Of course, David tried to pretend he wasn't.

"Oh, hey."

"Your not gonna sell those last few papes just standing there, Davey, no matter how pretty a face you got," Jack teased, hoping to settle him. Instead, David shuffled away from the window and, subsequently, Jack.

"I'm just here for Les. Mama doesn't want him selling alone. I hold the extras while he does his act down the block." He pointed toward Les's small, coughing frame down the sidewalk. Jack's chest swelled with pride, despite the hint of disapproval still in David's voice.

There was nothing to say for a few seconds, so Jack let himself do a once-over of David. Something about him looked different, and in a way Jack didn't really understand, David _felt_ different. "So, you glad to see me?"

"Yeah," David replied steadily. "Sure." He hitched the papers under his arm. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Not sure if he was supposed to answer that, Jack shrugged. "I hotfooted over this way soon as I knew I could. Took a guess about where you'd be. We always came by this way," he jerked his head to the cold street he'd once seen hot and alive with fire and fighting—the street that had inspired him, and David. But the statue-still and focused way David stood before him now made Jack feel somehow foolish about that.

He realized his palms felt sweaty even in the warmthless February sun. "Anyway, I saw Crutchy a ways back," he hiked a thumb over his shoulder, "and he pointed me here."

David nodded like he'd figured that out already. "Good thing you didn't come looking for us before now. We haven't been out for weeks."

"Oh." So they'd stopped selling. The possibility hadn't occurred to him, and something inside him felt rubbed raw—he didn't like thinking David had given up on him. He looked down, then away, then up at David—who was looking away—then down again before finally deciding it was still his turn to talk. He quietly offered the first thing that came to mind. "I miss you, Dave."

David smiled limply. "That's nice to know, Jack. Thanks." He clutched a ruddy-knuckled hand to his coat collar and bounced on the balls of his feet for warmth.

Wasn't full forgiveness, but Jack would make it up to him.

"Jack!" Les barreled into him, and Jack squashed Les's head in a half-hug, surprised he stood ribs-high already. Les beamed. "Did you see that? I didn't even have to offer the pape—that fella just saw me cough and then bought it! I'm really good now. Are you going to sell with us? I'll show you!" He skittered away to get another paper from David.

"Actually," Jack caught David's eye above Les's capped head, "me and your brother got some catching up to do. We thought you could finish out the day with Crutchy. Whaddya say?"

Les's face fell, and David's brow creased. "Jack—"

"C'mon . . ." He playfully bumped David. "He'll be fine! You'll be better off without this stick-in-the-mud, right Les? A kid and a crip? It's genius. You'll be millionaires by the end of the day."

David continued to frown.

"It won't be long. We'll be back in a couple hours." Jack cupped his hands around David's neck and gave him an encouraging shake, then stooped to scoop Les onto his shoulders. 

He steered them up the street, with David trailing grudgingly, until they met Crutchy, who was just as pleased with the idea as Jack figured he would be. Some guys never changed. After David handed off the rest of the papers and told Les to behave, he turned to let Jack lead the way.

Jack set off toward the park at his usual healthy clip. On the way he rattled about what he'd been up to, about the good guys he'd found for his team—guys he knew David would like and approve of."Today they're out on patrol. Keeping Greene's name circulating, finding more folks to help out. Winter's almost over and nobody's gone hungry in my district. That's something."

David listened—eyes to cobblestones, hands in pockets—as Jack led them down the winter streets and through wild stories of the fights and successes he'd seen lately. It used to be easy to talk to David, and maybe Jack's breakneck pace made it seem easy, but it didn't feel the same.

But the only way Jack could think to fix that was to keep trying. A few times after a rally had turned into a riot (mostly Jack ducked out before the action—not that he'd told David that—but on occasion he got forced into a scrape) he'd gone to the Jacobs' to have Sarah treat his wounds, and each time it took a while for David to forget his frown and start talking strategy, but he always did.

"So what've you been doing on Saturdays, Dave?" he hazarded.

David shrugged. "Sometimes you send me to Brooklyn."

A surprise laugh escaped Jack. "Yeah. Sometimes I do. And how is the baron of Brooklyn? You only ever bring me bad news about him—'Spot says no,' 'Spot says you're a chump.'"

One corner of David's mouth lifted wryly. "He's all right. We don't really talk much."

"He still king of New York to all those newsies?"

"Unofficially, maybe."

Jack slowed his pace. "There's no way he gave it up."

"Not so much 'gave it up' as 'got a promotion.' Or gave himself one, I guess."

With his interest more than piqued, possibilities churned in Jack's head. He needed more facts. "You're not making sense, Dave."

"Look, all I know for sure is that he's not a newsie anymore."

"What about his gang? What about Brick and Pauley and the rest?"

David winced, and Jack knew that wince—it meant David thought he shouldn't say what came next. "I don't think they're newsies anymore, either."

That meant this new racket of Spot's—whatever it was—was big. And assuming it was (mostly) legal, appealing to Spot's business interest might finally sway him into an alliance. The idea put speed back in Jack's step. He'd run it by Greene.

They stopped at a sausage vendor—Jack paid for both of them—and claimed a park bench across the way.

"All these events you go to, all this organizing, it's a lot of work, right?" David asked, redistributing sauerkraut over his sausage.

"I guess."

"So," David licked his finger and wiped it on his pant leg, "doesn't it seem contradictory to you that Greene says he supports the labor unions and shortening workweeks but requires his own men to be ready for action at any time? You work almost straight through every month." He took an enormous bite.

Jack chuckled and shook his head. That was more like it—David asking school-smart questions and chomping down food. He smiled and delivered one of his best lines. "We're working to make it better for everybody."

"Mm. How noble," David said in a tone that meant it wasn't.

Even though David's lack of support nettled Jack, he didn't show it. He bit firmly into his sandwich to stop himself from saying something stupid, and they ate in silence.

Swallowing his final mouthful he asked, "What made you stop selling?" It'd just occurred to him that all the newsies' strike leaders had moved on, grown up. "I mean, was it Spot? Because he could shame a canary out of its yellow, but there's nothing wrong with selling papers, you know."

David's eyes narrowed. "Had nothing to do with Spot." His tone was sharp. "It's not like we need the money anymore. It's certainly not worth freezing out here once or twice a week for a few cents." He crushed the paper wrap from his lunch into a ball. "And I have other things to worry about, like school."

"Yeah, okay. I'm just saying a man needs to stand on his own two feet and if you—"

David sprung off the bench, full of anger that caught Jack off guard. "Is that what you think working for Greene is? 'Standing on your own two feet'? You're not 'standing' on or for anything, Jack. You're falling for all of it! He's a wolf in sheep's clothing, a capitalist disguised as a champion of the working man. He's a crook!"

Jack's temper flared, and this time he didn't suppress it. He was on his feet and inches from David in seconds. "You doubt goddamn everything. Greene's gonna be mayor by summer's end. Like Roosevelt—straight to the top! Just because you don't think it can happen doesn't mean it won't."

Lips pinched thin, David held his glare steady. But just as Jack wondered whether he could ever hit his best friend, David's features softened. Suddenly the David Jack recognized best stood before him—the one who looked all-knowing and confused at once, the one who wanted something Jack didn't understand.

"You're never going to see it, are you?" David's voice held sad awe. "Not until you want to."

That struck Jack harder than any insult would have. He had no idea what to say, and he wasn't even sure they were talking about Greene anymore. "Davey, I—"

"Know the reason I stopped selling, Jack?" David concentrated a deep blue stare on him. "It was you. It wasn't the same without you."

With that, he turned and left Jack standing there, falling.


	5. Bridge Is Burning

  


* * *

 

A cluster of men tromped up the steps, their voices and boots loud enough to make David flinch. He ducked his head, hiding his face beneath the brim of his cap, just in case one of them recognized him as a friend of Jack's, and maybe thought to tell Jack he was loitering around outside. David wasn’t there for Jack. He didn't want Jack to know he'd been there at all.

David leaned against the siding on the wide porch of Greene's place, watching the wheels of passing wagons roll through the springtime mud and waiting anxiously for the front door to his left to swing open. They had to be done soon. At least he hoped they did -- he had to make it back to school without being late. But that was far from the only reason he was twitchy. 

The last time David had crossed the bridge to Brooklyn Spot had said, "Tell Jacky-boy I'll meet his boss," as he got to his feet, tucking in his shirt. It stunned David, but there hadn't been time for questions before Spot was out the door. So David had told Jack, Jack had crowed in triumph, and Spot had come to Manhattan. And now, bested by his curiosity, David waited in the shadows on Greene's portico for Spot to leave the building, and prayed that Jack would not be with him.

He'd seen Jack only two or three times over the last few months. Three weeks after they'd fought, Jack showed up at the Jacobs family home for supper, dishing out stories and acting as though nothing had changed. David couldn't seem to be anything but bitter and distant, but Jack wasn't asking questions and David wasn't offering answers. He didn't have any. All he knew was that his gut knotted every time he saw Jack, because part of him hated Jack and part of him longed for days on hot summer streets with Jack pressed against his side, or calling his name, beckoning with a smile across a crowd. He felt angry and guilty and sorry sick just thinking about Jack. Seeing him was worse.

David wasn't making his treks to Brooklyn at Jack's behest anymore. He didn't tell Spot that, of course, but just fed him whatever Jack's latest news had been last time he'd come around. He didn't kid himself, though. He saw the correlation between Jack's unannounced visits to the Jacobs family home and his own to Brooklyn, and even though he tried not to take any expectations with him, David knew why he went. Sometimes he waited an hour or two for Spot to get back from business. Sometimes Spot gave Brick the okay to let David into the room during what otherwise seemed to be a private meeting, and even though David just took a seat off to the side and let Spot do his thing, his presence always shook up the other guy enough that David figured that was exactly what Spot wanted. And sometimes they just did whatever there was to do -- found lunch, watched a boxing match, played a hand of cards. David didn't kid himself about that stuff either. He knew he crossed the bridge for those things just as much as whatever else it was he and Spot did.

Friendship with Spot was not the same as with Jack. Jack was chatter and empty affirmation, demanded attention and easy touches. Spot was taciturn and brittle, but also quick and focused. He spoke with purpose, either to prod or tease, or not at all, and there was no touching -- unless there was only touching, accompanied by hitched breaths and bite marks and that addictive burn of release. 

Somehow it had all become easier with Spot. Space and silence no longer made David nervous, they were a relief, and that shot David with a pang of guilt. He didn't understand how he could want things to be the way they had been and still feel glad that they'd changed.

David jumped when the screen door whacked shut. Spot didn't see him as he crossed the porch, all skinny shoulders and broad swagger, one palm balanced on the head of his cane. David held his breath and slunk after him with a wary backward glance to the door. He caught up to Spot at the base of the portico steps.

"Hey," he panted, finally letting out his breath and blinking into the bright grey sky. Spot wheeled on him, hand reaching to draw his cane like a sword. David stopped short in the face of Spot's glare.

"Damn it, Jacobs," Spot's expression relaxed. "What're you doing? Greene send you out to work the sympathy angle?" David scowled but Spot ignored it and turned to keep walking.

"I don't work for him," David grit out, falling into pace with his strides.

"Yeah, that's what you keep saying. So you've just 'got a message from Jack,' that it?"

A flush of that anger and guilt heated David's cheeks, but he kept his voice and step steady. "So you told him no?" he deflected.

Spot flicked him a quick, considering glance. "Told him I'd think about it."

"Which means no," David translated.

A corner of Spot's mouth twitched. "Means I'm thinking about it," he retorted, but there was something like approval in his voice.

David checked his pocket watch -- the route Spot was taking was leading further out of his way back to school. "So what'd you find out about him?"

"Nothing I didn't already know. Guy's a one-trick pony with a lump of lard for brains."

"Yeah? Why'd you come, then?"

"'Cause," he said, and his smirk was dangerous, "Best way to beat 'em is to meet 'em."

"Beat him?" David echoed, bewildered.

He cut sideways then, dodging other pedestrians and pressing chest-to-chest with Spot as he did the same. Spot's gaze was direct and heavy and in that second David realized again that Spot was taller than he used to be, that their eyes and mouths were at the same level now, and that their lips had still never met. A wave of near-desperate want spun David forward, his throat tight and head whirling.

The springtime air was close and damp, like inhaling warm breath. It made him dizzier.

"I got business of my own," Spot said, and David wasn't sure if he'd missed something. "Greene's Manhattan's problem for now, but sickness like that spreads. Unless somebody stops it."

David's heartbeat picked up. He still wasn't sure he was hearing this right, and he felt unsteady all over. He was in public with Spot Conlon, in Manhattan. It was one thing to walk around Brooklyn, where nobody knew David and everybody knew not to nose around Spot's business. It was another to be here, at home, in broad daylight, with a boy who sliced down the street like a sharp weapon. He had to be out of his mind.

"Look, I think he's a fraud, too. But he is helping people," he countered lamely.

Hair lifted at the back of David's neck. He was positive all eyes were on them as they made their way down the block. They all knew, David thought with a flap of panic in his chest. That woman up the street and man on the opposite corner, everyone -- they all knew just by looking precisely the kinds of things he and Spot had done together in the dark and damp, and exactly what kind of betrayal it was. 

David swallowed and closed his eyes for a few steps, knocking shoulders with someone but having no breath to utter an apology as he nearly jogged to keep pace behind Spot.

"He's helping himself," Spot scoffed.

"Oh, like you're any different?"

That stopped Spot midstride and he stabbed David with a scowl. 

With a fast glance up and down the street, David jostled Spot into a crevasse of an alley nearby and away from the public gaze. He sighed and closed his eyes, shoving a hand under his cap to get a grip on his head to make it stop spinning.

"You could find out yourself," Spot said, surly.

"What?" Exasperated, David dropped his hand to his side. 

"Maybe I'm no different from Greene. Maybe I am. You could find out for yourself," and there was a gleam in Spot's eye now.

David dragged a palm over his face. "Spot, please start saying something that makes sense. I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know if _you_ know what you're talking about. Beat Greene at what? Find out for myself how?"

Spot regarded him with pursed lips and narrowed eyes for a minute, probably waiting for David's steam to settle. He chose his moment then said, "Come work for Brooklyn."

Shock forced a laugh from David's lungs. He shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered.

Spot was leaning against one of the alley's walls with his arms crossed tight over his ribs, chin nearly to his chest. It was the same stance as the first day they'd met, when Jack introduced them at the start of the strike and sicced David on Spot to convince him to join. It was a stance that said he was waiting, but not expecting, to be impressed.

David paced the cramped space, aware of Spot tracking him with his eyes, of his palms dampening with sweat, of how far he was from that first day -- and from Jack. An unaccountable dread began dragging his heart into his stomach.

"Work for Brooklyn to do what? Keep your books? Get you elected mayor instead of Greene?" He couldn't bring himself to say the other stuff he could do -- had been doing -- for Spot out loud.

"I'm not talking about being mayor. I'm talking about running the city," Spot said. "We can change things, but ain't nobody gonna listen to us unless we make 'em, remember?"

David stopped pacing. "What, the city's full of scabbers and it's up to you to soak them all? I'm not going to be one of your thugs, Spot. That's ridiculous. I remember the strike. I've heard stories. You lead a bunch of bullies."

Spot kicked away from the wall and slid into David's personal space, fierce and curious. "You think Greene's men are any different? Tell me something, how many times has Jacky-boy come crying to you with a busted lip or black eye?" 

David's stomach lurched. He stepped back from Spot's intensity, wincing because it was true.

"You’re right, Jacobs," Spot kept on. "This is more than newsies and newspapers. This is people. That's why Greene's a sack of shit -- once he gets their vote, he's done, gone." Spot moved a hand to the brass head of his cane, hip cocked and shoulders set hard like a battle commander. "First rule is to start small and hit hard. I did that. Maybe it wasn't as clean and pretty as you'd like, but nobody ignores bloody knuckles.

"But see," Spot quirked a smile and took a step toward him, "Now I need somebody who can see the whole picture and stay focused on the details." He advanced a step forward for every one David took backward. "I need a right-hand man. I need somebody to spread the word." David's back hit the brick wall, but Spot didn't stop. "Somebody smart and credible."

Blue eyes like daggers, Spot had him pinned without laying a hand on him, their bodies scant inches apart, and David was ripping in half. His heart pounded with fear and arousal, with curiosity and shame. 

"I need a Walking Mouth," Spot said, flicking an obvious glance to David's lips, and David squeezed his eyes shut, felt the familiar brush of Spot's body, and then Spot's voice was a hot breath at his ear. "And I want you, Davey."

David startled, eyes flying open. _Davey._ It echoed inside him, in Jack's voice. David swallowed down the guilt that threatened to choke him. Taking a deep breath, he put a hand to Spot's chest and pushed him out to arm's length.

"All right," he said, his voice steadier than his knees as he peeled himself off the wall. "All right, I'll think about it."

**. . .  
. . .**

David couldn't remember at what point he began to run, but minutes after leaving Spot in that alley halfway to the Brooklyn Bridge he found himself panting humid air in front of Greene's place. He took a minute to catch his breath then jogged up the stairs for the second time that day, this time not caring who saw.

"Jack!" he called, searching through the men who now crowded the porch.

Jack grinned when he saw him, wide and welcoming as always, and David almost burst with relief. The sick, scared feeling that had propelled him there was replaced with curling warmth and comfort and, locking eyes with Jack, he thought _yes, at last, finally_.

It held for all of a second before someone else shouted Jack's name and another man cut in front of David, blocking Jack from view, and somebody further tapped Jack's shoulder and gestured to the contents of the crate he was carrying, and just like that Jack was drawn back into his business -- Greene's business. 

David clenched his jaw and his fists and plowed forward. He needed to talk to Jack and he needed to do it now. He had to tell him about Spot, everything about Spot -- the job offer, Spot's plans, their meetings, everything. He wanted to come clean, to scrub the guilt and lies off himself. He wanted Jack to know. And maybe Jack would shove him away and cast him out and tell him to never come back, but maybe he would ask him to stay. Maybe Jack would want him anyway. 

"Jack -- Jack!" He pawed his way to Jack's side. "Jack, I have to talk to you. It's important."

"Davey, whatcha doing here? Shouldn't you be in school or something?" Jack was smiling as he doled out the green colored sashes and badges from the crate, but he didn't spare David a glance.

David tugged the shoulder of Jack's shirt to talk right into his ear. "Jack, it's about Spot. He off --"

"Hey, yeah!" Jack's smile broadened. "Spot met Boss Greene today, and it's all because of you. They had a good little chat and you know what Spot said? He said he's thinking about it, Dave."

"That's not what he means, Jack. Jack, he --"

"Give him a couple days, then see what he thinks will ya?" 

David was forced to let go the fistful of Jack's shirt as Jack moved away, hugging the crate to one hip and handing out sashes and badges by name. He huffed and scooted along after Jack. "No! I mean, I don't have to. I know what he thinks."

"Yeah? How's that?" Jack fixed his eyes on him then, suspicious, and David's stomach twisted. He'd been on the verge of blurting it all out, but froze under Jack's wary stare. And in the seconds it took for David to find his voice, Jack's attention was elsewhere.

David deflated. A little more than a year ago he'd talked down a giant of the newspaper world, with Jack at his side. But now, when it mattered even more, he was struck dumb in front of Jack himself. 

He backed against the portico railing to wait.

Afternoon sunlight slipped to early evening as David watched Jack work, proudly and sadly. Jack was smart and lively, charismatic in a way David had always been jealous of but flattered by. In between organizing his men -- Greene's men -- by giving orders and answering questions, Jack splashed attention David's way. A smile here. A nod there. A clap on the shoulder each time he came close. There had been a time that would have been enough to keep David there, patient and pacified and wanting more. 

But as David watched Jack occupied with his duties -- with his future -- he knew he would never come first in Jack's life. It didn't matter if Jack wanted him, David understood now, he would always come second, or third, or seventh.

Still, he waited. Waited to say goodbye.

If David had gone to school for a full day like he was supposed to, he would have been home by the time Jack sank against the railing next to him. "What a day, huh?"

"Yeah, looked like it."

"Too bad we didn't have time for you to meet any of the fellas," Jack babbled, shifting around to look out at the street, leaning on his elbows. "We've almost got the candidate spot for the election. We're really coming up on it now, you know?"

Bottom lip between his teeth, David nodded. 

"So what'd you want, Dave? You said it was important?"

David looked down, followed the line of Jack's back up to his contented smile, a successful day's work worn well across his shoulders. For one frantic moment, David thought to risk it all, to act instead of talk, to yank Jack up and show him what was so important. But he already knew that the final the outcome wouldn't be what he wanted.

"It's always going to be this way, isn't it?"

Jack's chuckle ended with a sigh. "Hope so."

David nodded again and let silence stretch between them, easy in a way it hadn't been for months. "I have to go," he said after a few minutes.

Jack pushed upright, looking puzzled. "You sure? You never said what was important. S'everything okay?"

That made David smile, just a little. He reached out and pressed a palm to Jack's chest, not unlike he had to Spot earlier that afternoon. "Yeah, Jack, everything's okay," he said, voice tight, hand still held flat over Jack's heart. "I just . . . have to go."

He dropped his hand but studied Jack's face, deciding to remember it as it used to be -- with a loose grin and red cowboy bandana at his neck, without the sharper angles of adulthood.

Jack was studying him, too, eyebrows knit. "Yeah, all right. G'night, Davey," he said, squeezing David's shoulder and putting on a smile. "See ya around. Soon."

David managed a return smile and nodded. As Jack turned to head inside, David shut his eyes and choked back the lump in his throat.

**. . .  
. . .**

It was well after dark when David reached Brooklyn. Light spilled from the windows of the dockside pub that had become Spot's regular meeting place and residence -- he kept a room upstairs that featured a mostly empty wardrobe and a bed with springs. David hovered on the walk outside the door before going in, listening to the nighttime noise along the waterfront and scraping together the few words and courage he needed. With a sigh and a swallow, he pushed open the door.

The common room inside was smoke-filled but not crowded. Most of the men in Spot's crew looked to be David's age or just a few years older, unlike the group of Greene's that Jack led, who were all a good ten or twenty years beyond. They were gathered at tables to the right of the bar, near the stairs. Spot himself sat with his back to the wall, neither at the center of the group or presiding over it, long legs stretched in front of him and arms crossing his chest. David walked directly to the tables and waited for Spot's attention to find him.

There was a flicker of genuine surprise in Spot's eyes before his grin turned mischievous. "Christ, Greene just doesn’t understand 'fuck you,' does he?" Spot joked for the benefit of the men, and gruff laughter rounded the tables.

"I'm here on my own," David said pointedly, speaking directly to Spot.

Everyone watched, silent, as Spot craned back to shoot Brick a look, and Brick nodded once at him then jerked his head toward the door and at the stairs. Chairs scuffed back from tables and boots clomped on the floor as the men grabbed their hats and jackets and headed out to the street or up to their rooms. Spot stayed exactly where he was.

David stood with his arms hanging loose at his sides, eyes locked with Spot's. Brick was the last man to clear out and once he'd gone David didn't hesitate.

"I'll do it," he said flatly. "Once I'm done with school in a couple months, I'll do it. Whatever you want."

Spot's expression was unreadable, but David found comfort in that. It meant Spot was taking him seriously. 

"What changed?" 

David's fingers curled into his palms, but he held Spot's gaze. "Nothing. Nothing's ever going to."

Spot didn't react, but David got the feeling Spot somehow knew exactly what he meant.

Then a corner of Spot's mouth tipped upward. "Well," he said brightly and with a clap of his hands to his thighs he got to his feet. "Welcome aboard, Jacobs." He came around the table and stuck out his hand.

Something a bit like regret squeezed David's heart as he met Spot's spit-less palm with his own.

"Brooklyn'll be here if you need anything in the meantime," Spot offered, congenial and businesslike, as they broke off the handshake. "Anything else I can do for you?"

David glanced over to the window, where he could see the bridge lined with streetlights, burning against the dark with the glow of Manhattan like embers below it.

It was too late to go back now. 

"Yeah," he said, flashing Spot a look under half-lidded eyes. "You got a place I can stay for the night?"


	6. The Hardest Part

  


* * *

 

It was one of those sticky last days of July, so hot and wet you think you're boiling in soup. But for Spot Conlon—and, therefore, for Brooklyn—it was also the best goddamn day of year.

He glanced across the room at Dave, who tried not to smile for all of three seconds before busting into a grin. Spot smirked in return. The papes had hit the streets that morning and already, just before noon, the news was everywhere and everybody knew. The election would be a landslide, even though it was still two weeks away. Greene was finished.

And Spot knew exactly who he had to thank for that.

He'd brought David inside right away. Spot hadn't held back and Dave hadn't even flinched. No one questioned it, even if they were nervy at first; David had an education and David was useful. With him around, the job got done and got done better. Before long, the boys thought of him as Brooklyn through and through. Spot knew better than to think Dave thought about it that way, but he also knew David had long since stopped going back to Manhattan at night. He'd started keeping a room on his own dime, a block from the docks. Said he couldn't rely on Brooklyn for everything, and Spot admired that, admired that Dave looked out for himself.

It'd been a hell of a couple months working with David. They worked together like they fucked together, rough and pushing. Dave fought where others backed down, questioned moves without questioning authority. He made Spot think further, dig deeper, and his brains had steered them right more than once. With every deal that went their way, every new inch of ground they gained, Spot thought of them as kings conquering the world. And after every victory or hard-fought argument, they expended their pent-up energy on each other, taking one another apart in the ways they'd learned. What Spot relished most was driving David's voice away. There was so much power in that mouth of his, those words he slung, but it was Spot who knew how to stop it, who could reduce David to speechlessness by sucking him off. He had half a mind to do it right then. To back Dave up against the table, drop to his knees, and make him curse and come. He could do it. For all it was a huge day, it was also a slow one. Nobody was in the pub at this hour. The other fellas were out working their filthy asses off—hauling and building and making the city run in those thousand unseen ways. They wouldn't be back 'til dusk for the beers and celebrating. Right then it was just him and Dave, sweltering and smiling in this too-hot heat.

Spot swung his boots down from the table where he sat and got to his feet, ready to steal that grin off David's face, when the door burst open.

It was Jack.

He stalked two steps inside, a dark slice against the blast of sun. "You did this," he accused, waving a copy of today's _World_ in his hand. "I know you did this. It had to be you. How did you know? How did you find out?" His whole body was shaking with anger as he nailed Spot with a glare.

Spot crossed his arms and smeared on a smile. He'd been expecting to face Jack sooner rather than later. His timing was terrible, but that was just like Jack. "A little bird told me," Spot replied, calm as can be, if only because it would get under Jack's skin.

He purposefully did not look at David, but could see him at the edge of his vision, beyond the glare of light from the open door. He was standing stock-still behind the table he used as a desk, and it occurred to Spot that David had never told him whether Jack knew where he was living and working now, and Spot had never asked.

Jack snorted. "You and your fucking little birds. You're a snake, Conlon. Forked tongue and all."

Spot wagged his head. "You were backin' the wrong horse, Kelly. Nothing personal. It's just business."

And that was the whole truth. Spot wanted to take out Greene because he was capitalist swine that would pocket the people's money even before the election applause died down. That Jack was going down with Greene was his own fault, not part of any kind of vendetta of Spot's.

'Course, he couldn't speak for David on that point. He'd never asked about that, either. But he'd learned that David could speak plenty well for himself when he wanted to. Spot glanced over at him now.

"You should go, Jack," David suggested, as if taking his cue, and stepped out from around the table. "This isn't a place you should be right now."

Jack startled, turning to see David in the shadow by the bar for the first time, and that answered that—David had never told Jack where he'd gone.

He pushed off his cowboy hat and let it drop down his back, like he was trying to make sure it was really David. It took him a second to respond. "I'm not gonna ask what you're doing here, Dave, but you stay outta this." Jack pointed the paper at him, sidelining him with a swipe through the air. "This ain't got nothing to do with you." He moved to turn back to Spot then, but David took a step closer, demanding to keep Jack's attention.

"Yeah, Jack, actually it does."

Spot watched the truth break over Jack. It crashed in from behind him like a wave. "You've been helping him?" Jack asked, voice washed out in disbelief. He held up the paper. "You been part of this?"

Everything wavered in the second of silence before David's answer, like a shore horizon in heat. Spot realized he was holding his breath, but he didn't let it out.

David held his chin up. "It was my idea," he said, gaze steady on Jack.

Jack stood straighter, eyes widening. "No," he said firmly. "No, couldn't've been."

Something about that set Spot's teeth. David had listened to the stories of Greene's back dealing, his grabs for influence and territory through lining silk pockets instead of greasing the working wheels of city. It was David who'd pointed out that meant Jack's crew and all the others like it were a sham, just no-good promises dressed up in official badges for parades and pretty speeches. And it was David who'd given the story to the _World_. For all Spot knew, he'd gone direct to Pulitzer.

And Spot hadn't thought about that before, about why David chose the _World_ instead of the other papers. Could've been that the _Journal_ was in Greene's pocket, but Denton would've run the story in the _Sun_. And yet David gave the scoop to the _World_. The paper whose presses he and Jack had ground to a halt just over a year ago.

Jesus. It was brutal. It was brilliant. Spot had never wanted to fuck Dave as badly as he did right then.

And here was Jack, denying David was capable of any of it. He hadn't said it _wasn't_ David, but that it _couldn't be_ , and that just wasn't true. But Jack never could see what was right in front of him.

Spot slid up next to David, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Dave's a real good second, you know? I don't do much without him these days, as a matter of fact." Spot watched irritation and outrage gather on Jack's face and didn't care one whit. Jack was a fool for overlooking David. It was a mistake—one Spot was never going to make—and Spot wanted Jack to know it. "It's like I told you, Jacky-boy," he said, wistfully, "I got a brain, and more than just half of one. So I listen to what he's got to say." He thumped David in the chest with his free hand then let go, smiling at the sight of Jack's glower.

As he moved away, David's head turned, following the motion. He kept his eyes down, but Spot knew what he was thinking all the same; he was wondering if all that was true or if Spot had he said it just to taunt Jack. Spot found himself hoping Dave would come up with the right answer—the truth was always Spot's favorite taunt.

"Fuck you, Conlon," Jack spat. "You coulda done good with Greene. He was willing to help you, you know, and you snaked us."

David crossed his arms at his chest, turning his attention back to Jack. He shook his head. "Please just go, Jack. It's over."

"Yeah, over for you, maybe. What am I supposed to do now, David, huh? You think about that as you plotted with this bastard? Or didn't it matter? Goddammit you knew, Dave! You _knew_ I put everything into this."

So this was it. This was the standoff Spot had known was coming since the first time David hadn't jumped to Jack's defense, the standoff he'd wanted to see since the first time David showed up alone and Spot had knocked him in the sand, marked him, and made him come.

Spot slipped away from them. At this point he didn't have to say a word.

David stood stiff as Jack stormed at him, spouting self-righteous piss and vinegar and indignation. He winced when Jack cut too deep or came too close, but he held his ground and let Jack spin himself out.

"After all we did together, after all this time, and you do _this_?" Jack threw the paper on the floor and ground it under his foot. "You could do anything, Davey! Anything!"

Anger sparked in David's eyes. For the first time he lashed out in his own defense. "Yeah, I could. And here I am."

That shut Jack up.

"What was my other option, Jack?" David said, wheeling on him. "Work for you and your precious politician? Schlep through the streets as Jack Kelly's messenger boy? But I wasn't even worth that to you, was I?"

"Work for me? . . . I never meant . . ." Jack floundered. "You had to finish school! That's what you wanted. And then, yeah, I thought maybe you would work with me. Not for me. Never for me, Davey," he said hoarsely, voice washed out with betrayal. "Never like that, never like _this_ ," he stabbed a finger at Spot. "We're partners, Dave."

David swallowed. His whole body was held tensed and tight. "We _were_ partners, Jack. You stopped holding up your end of the bargain, and sixty-forty was never a fair split. Especially when I ended up doing ninety percent of the work."

Jack reeled back.

Spot stopped himself from letting out the low whistle that was ripe on his lips. For a kid who'd grown up soft, Dave had always had mettle, but the last few months had hammered his spine into absolute steel. Spot couldn't take credit for that; that handiwork was all Jack's, whether he knew it or not.

"So this is what you want," Jack squared his shoulders. "This a good thing you got going on here, then?" He ticked a finger between David and Spot. His tone had turned caustic, and he took a few steps around, as though evaluating the pub.

David's eyes followed him with a glare. "It's better than nothing, and nothing is what you had to offer."

Spot smirked. Jack shot an angry glance his way.

"So what does your family think about all this?"

David held up his hands to ward away Jack's words. "That's really not your concern. It's my family, after all, not yours."

Jack stopped, stricken. His back was to David, but Spot saw the pain twist through him. Spot had never met Dave's folks and he hadn't seen Sarah or Les since the strike, but he knew Dave was proud of them all, knew he missed them, even though he never said so. And he knew David's father had taken a job as a shop clerk, and that David was glad he was safe from the factories.

"Yeah, okay," Jack said, schooling his expression and turning around, "You got me there. So I guess I never shoulda mentioned to Greene that your pop was out of work, huh?"

David's posture crumpled, his jaw falling open. "You," he began, but he shook off the question, regaining some of his composure. "No. Don't bring them into this, Jack."

"I guess I didn't need to make sure he got a job so you got back to school, or to bring your ma extra flour sometimes. Good thing I haven't asked Sarah to marry me. Guess I can stop saving up, because you're right—your folks would definitely have said no if I'd asked, since I'm a Mick goy and all."

David flinched hard, shaking his head frantically. "Stop, Jack. Just stop."

"I was never good enough for 'em, was I, Davey? Not good enough for you, neither. I wasn't, Greene wasn't."

Spot had stopped smiling a while ago, but he knew for sure they'd turned a corner now. Jack's spite churned his stomach. This was gonna get bad fast. He gripped the edge of the table he'd been leaning against, holding himself back. There were fights that were yours, fights you could make yours, and fights that were never yours. For better or worse, this fight was David's.

"It wasn't like that!" David protested. "It wasn't— You were— God, Jack, I— " He choked on his words.

"You what? I _what_ , Dave?" Jack rounded on him.

David shook his head again, lips pinched in a thin line. He took steps back and Jack pressed forward. "You should go," he rasped.

"Tell me."

"It doesn't matter anymore!" David burst out, smothering a dry sob and turning away. He reached down to shuffle papers on his desk, but it only served to show how hard his hands were shaking. "Things changed. It's different now. I don't . . . It doesn't matter what I— "

David didn't see it coming, couldn't see it coming, but Spot did. He knew what Jack was going to do before he did it—it was in his lean, in the way his stare fixed on David. But Jack was fast, Spot was too far away, and then it was too late. Jack grabbed David by the shoulder, spun him, and swooped in, pushing his mouth against David's.

Spot was on his feet and charging forward. He was a step away, ready to pull Jack off, when he saw David give over to it, saw his shoulders go slack and his mouth open under the force of Jack's kiss.

Some urgent emotion surged through Spot—panic, dread, anger, something. Something powerful enough to stop him midstride. In split seconds he imagined the next months without David—imagined running this crew without him, late nights without him, victories without him—and he knew exactly how he felt about that. He hated it.

As he watched Jack kiss David and David let him, the heat of the room threatened to choke him. Spot had never kissed David. After everything else, it was absurd that he'd never done just this, just put his mouth to David's and held it there. Spot didn't kiss other men. But he also hadn’t gotten off with anyone else since before Dave came to Brooklyn. And right at that moment, he had no idea what to do.

But then David planted his palms on Jack's chest, elbows bent outward, and _shoved_.

Jack stumbled away. "What's the problem, Davey?" he sneered, half a hurt question, half a vengeful jibe. "That's what you wanted, right?"

Color washed from David's face.

Spot's throat tightened.

Screw the rest of it, Spot thought, eyes fixed on David. This was the hardest part—having to acknowledge what you want, to say it out loud. Admit to the world you have a weakness, that it can take something away from you. Spot had never done it. He'd never let himself get in a place where he had to, never had a weakness that involved something he could lose and not get back. But he had one now, and in that moment he was closer to admitting it than he'd ever been.

David wiped the back of his wrist over his mouth. He looked like he was going to throw up until the very second he hauled back and slugged Jack.

His fist collided with Jack's jaw, smashing his face to the side and knocking him off balance. Jack staggered backward, toppling over a chair and hitting the wall just in time to keep on his feet.

"You're a bastard. You're a selfish fucking bastard," David told him. He stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands balled in fists at his sides. His whole body trembled; Spot could almost feel it from a foot away.

They both watched as Jack peeled himself from the wall and straightened up. He fingered his jaw and checked for a bloodied lip, hand coming away clean. Not once did he look at David. As he reached back for his hat and moved toward the door, his focus was on Spot instead.

"You did this. Don't think I don't know that," he said, pointing the brim of his hat in Spot's direction.

"He didn't use me, Jack," David scoffed. "It was my decision."

David was wrong there, Spot thought, but he wasn't about to correct him.

"Don't be so sure about that, Dave," Jack warned, eyes never leaving Spot. "Don't be so sure about that."

"No, Jack, that's true," David nodded, considering his point. "Some of it was you."

Jack flashed him a look, then put his hat on with a shallow bow and stepped backward out the door, not turning until he was fully outside.

For all the times Spot had watched Jack Kelly walk away, he'd never seen him do so in defeat. It tugged at his conscience—he'd counted Jack among his friends, after all. But not anymore, not after what he'd just witnessed. Maybe it hadn't started out as personal, but it had ended that way.

Still, this was a victory. Both he and David had won here; David had won his fight with Jack and in the process Spot had won David. But he understood it wasn't a victory they'd be celebrating. He glanced over.

David was staring, unseeingly, at the empty doorway, his hands no longer in fists. Spot wondered how long it would take for David to understand that he didn't ruin Jack's life, that _Jack_ ruined Jack's life. He gave a short sigh and moved toward the door, closing it and leaning back against the jamb.

The change in light snapped David out of his trance. He blinked as though just realizing Spot was there.

"You with me there, Jacobs?"

David shook himself back into concentration. "Yeah," he said, distracted. Then he looked up and said it again, "Yeah. I'm with you." He shook his head once more, this time with a humorless laugh. He took a few steps, rubbing at his eyes and running a hand into his hair. "God. Yeah. I'm here." He turned back to Spot, hands on his hips. "You can quit worrying. I'm not leaving. I've got no place else to go."

Spot pretended not to hear the shaky despair behind David's words. Instead, he put on a defensive frown and raised his chin in a bluff. "Who says I was worried?"

David laughed again, a little hysterical this time, but a little charmed too, and moved to pick up the overturned chair. Spot grinned and kicked away from the door. That was exactly what he wanted.

  
**– end –**   


**Author's Note:**

> Point of view rotates throughout the fic. We begin with Jack, move to David, then come to Spot, and then begin again.


End file.
